Thirty Ways to Say a Single Farewell
by Swiss Army Knife
Summary: To the people who knew him, it went without saying; Umino Iruka would die defending the academy. It was a fact, not a possibility. And that is exactly what happened.
1. Contract

Author's Note: This story was conceptualized when I read the chapter about Sarutobi's funeral. It was so somber, especially when Iruka embraced Konohamaru. That the beginning point for _30 Ways to Say a Single Farewell_. It's probably less streamline than it should be, but while a better paced story might leave out some of the individual farewells, I just couldn't.

* * *

 **Thirty Ways to Say a Single Farewell**

by Swiss Army Knife

* * *

"Do not stand at the stone and weep;  
I am not there, I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand waves that roll.  
I am the shade where young things grow.

I am the sunlight on ripening grain.  
I am the soft, sustaining rain.  
When you witness the seasons turn,  
I am the fiery hands that burn,

Coloring every branch of Leaves.  
I am the breeze stirring in all the trees.  
So do not stand by a grave and cry;  
I am not there, I did not die.

(Adaption of "I Am A Thousand Winds That Blow")

* * *

It rained, tears trailing down every leaf. The entire forest of Konoha dripped with moisture, which drenched the ground until it swelled. Black shirts stuck to wet backs. There wasn't a face that wasn't cold and plastered with bangs, no mouth that wasn't cut for the grave. And not one empty hand; there were too many children.

Out of the gathering, a single body separated. It seemed to take him a long time to reach the memorial, and then he stared into the dusky face which gazed back at him through water-spotted glass. Naruto drew a slow, congested breath before he was able to address the photograph. "I can't believe we're here, Sensei."

He could hardly swallow against the hollow ache in this throat. The physical pain reminded him of all the mourning he'd done recently, and his eyes burned in reflex. Leaning against the stone, Naruto pushed his drenched collar away from his neck.

"What I mean is, I can't believe you're _here_ and not standing beside me."

Isolated in that private moment, Naruto barely registered the people at his back. After years of struggle, he had finally earned the respect of the entire village, and he knew they would give him time. Time to say farewell to the person who had meant so much to him in life.

Umino Iruka.

Naruto looked at the name carved into the stone face. After the academy had been destroyed with so many casualties, a separate tribute had been built to honor the teachers. Their contributions had been so easy to overlook until they were killed demonstrating a shinobi's greatest level of devotion to the village's most vulnerable citizens. Currently, that memorial bore thirteen names. It had been suggested that this final rite be carried out there, but Naruto had vehemently insisted on the Memorial Stone.

He exhaled, misting the air with a mixture of sorrow and vindication. ' _You were never convinced you would be honored here,'_ he recalled. ' _You always feared that where you were born would matter more than your true citizenship. Look at how wrong you were, Sensei_.'

Behind him, a small multitude stood vigil in the downpour, fierce and devastated and proud. They were here to say goodbye to the man who some had called weak in life, whose politics and practices had challenged many, whose compassion had nurtured hundreds, and whose hands and words had taught them all. The entire village was here to say farewell to Iruka. Shinobi and civilians, colleagues and students, enemies and friends.

Naruto drew up his hand from his side, easing his white knuckled grip to reveal a small object. For a moment, he rotated it between his fingers, hearing the hoarse rattle. Only when he took the thin string and released the bell did the sweet, high note sound.

Naruto had brought a chrysanthemum for the Sandaime, but for Sensei he laid down a bell, setting it just beside the frame that held the man's picture. Once, bearing just such a gift, Iruka had taken him to this exact spot and helped him pray for the soul of his father. Naruto bowed his head, remembering. The feeling was not so different now.

Iruka had taught him to fasten buttons, to count, to fight. It was Iruka's strong, deft fingers he still felt adjusting his grip around a kunai, his phantom rumble of rebuke when Naruto threw it and the trajectory was off. The man's proud face was a treasured memory on the day of Naruto's graduation, his wedding.

' _Sensei,'_ he thought.

How had this happened?

* * *

Shikamaru knew exactly how this had happened.

As he stood amidst the crowd, he could still hear the invasion alarm. His cheeks and chin were raw with burns, and moisture seeped through the bandages on his hands. He clinched his fists until he could feel the pain even through the dull insensibility he still felt, days after he had watched another mentor die.

He had been at the academy, a novice instructor with the ink barely dry on his qualifications. His decision to leave the field and become a teacher had bewildered his family and disappointed many who considered his abilities above such a position. He'd even met opposition from the council, who had berated him for wasting his potential. He would have liked to believe that Asuma-sensei would have understood, but that was something he would never know for sure.

He was sure that Iruka understood, though they had never spoken of it. Yet it had been Iruka who planted the seed. Shikamaru still remembered that day so long ago. Asked to stay after school, he had reluctantly parted with Chouji and returned to the empty classroom. There, he found his teacher setting out a battered shogi board on his desk, aligning the pieces with care.

Shikamaru had glowered at the wooden board. He knew what it was. There was a set in his father's study, though the pieces were rarely taken out of their polished boxes. Father had tried to interest him in playing, but Shikamaru could be stubborn. He grunted. "What is this?"

"Something troublesome," Sensei replied, but when Shikamaru gave him a look, he answered: "Training disguised at shogi tactics."

Shikamaru frowned but reluctantly allowed himself to be instructed. The game seemed simple, yet he felt a spark of interest as the possibilities unraveled in his head like a scroll. He felt his confidence grow after a few turns, and finally he made a bold move.

"Check," Sensei responded, his own piece emerging from nowhere. It had been a timed-out piece. A pawn.

Shikamaru stared, his shoulders rigid.

Iruka-sensei said, "You forgot about the enemies that weren't there yet," and then he smiled with all his teeth.

Shikamaru ran home that night, actually _ran_ , and scared his father half to death by barreling into the living area and demanding the shogi board be laid out. Stunned, his father complied. That evening they had played the first of many games, and the ritual became a bond between father and son. Shikamaru still played with Sensei, too, of course. Sitting cross-legged on his teacher's desk, he would peer over the board and finger the pieces with the pads of his fingers. He was really, really good at it; nonetheless, it took him three years to beat Iruka.

He still remembered the evening shadows filling the classroom, his teacher's grin quirky and knowing, chin braced against his knuckles. During those times, his eyes had always been a little sharper than usual, and it had taught Shikamaru something about the inherent duplicity that lay in a ninja's calling. Iruka-sensei was a head-patter, hurt-tender, storyteller. But he was also strategian, manipulator, pawn killer. It had given Shikamaru an early respect for those whose roles most considered beneath them. All people who wore shinobi colors were dangerous adversaries, and that was true whether or not they were visible on the board.

Shikamaru returned from his memories back to the bleak present. Beside him stood his friends and family. Chouji attempted to muffle his grief with his hand. His recent use of the _karorii kontorouru_ technique had left him diminished, and he visibly shook as he struggled to contain his emotions. He moaned, "How could this happen?"

Shikamaru had heard this question many, many times. But he knew the answer. He knew.

* * *

When the alarm sounded, it instantly silenced every creaking bench, scratching pencil, and tap of chalk. A dozen small faces turned toward the front desk, where their teacher had turned rigid and still. Even so young, the children were trained not to panic, but Shikamaru saw their fear. One gingerly raised her hand. "Are we going to the mountain, Sensei?"

Shikamaru gave a curt nod and signaled for them to follow.

The classrooms emptied just as the far-off sounds of battle reached them. Anxiety was in the faces of the tight-lipped adults, but no one was moving. Shikamaru himself, who knew the evacuation route as though it were a blueprint in his mind, felt as though his feet were papered with adhesive. The anchor of tiny fingers around the fabric of his pants weighed him down even as the siren continued to blare out the invasion warning.

The paralysis was broken by a presence who parted the crowd like water, and Shikamaru sagged with relief. Iruka-sensei was here.

"Quiet," Iruka commanded, and his steady voice carried easily over the tense murmuring. Calmly, he seized the gaze of every instructor, commanded every attention, and transformed a crowd threatened with hysteria into a portrait of comportment.

Behind him was the senior class: young shinobi only a few months from becoming academy graduates. They were Iruka's students, and though they were pale with nervousness, Shikamaru could see their determination to mimic their mentor's steely composure. Their eyes were pinned to his unwavering back, and their own shoulders lifted. Shikamaru felt his own doing the same.

"You know the procedure," Iruka spoke to the children and their guardians. "Once we're outside, follow your route and stay together. It's important we move quickly and quietly."

There was a collective acknowledgement as the hours of drilling fell into place. Shikamaru felt something come loose inside as Iruka led the way. He took the hand of his nearest student, and his class piled behind him.

They made it as far as the academy entrance, beyond which were the paths that would lead them to safety in the hidden caverns of the Hokage mountain, but just as they reached the front hall, there was a deafening roar from outside, and then the doors blew in on their hinges with a tremendous crunch and a spray of wood.

Searing heat blew against Shikamaru's face with the smell of cinders. A sound like a thousand snapping twigs reached his ears, heralding a plume of smoke. Flames roared across the academy grounds, which were already consumed with fire, an inferno that was beginning to climb the exterior walls of the building.

The smoke that was sucked into the entrance was incredible. At first it blotted their vision completely. Then it became possible to see an amorphous shape moving through the veil into their midst. The head and shoulders of a man – no, men – filled the entrance. Thirty of them or more, backlit by flying flakes of ash. Even the youngest children understood what their foreign hitai-ate meant, and Shikamaru read the color and make of their uniforms. Elite jounin. Though the pattern of the alarm had indicated a breech at the village wall, somehow the invaders had come to the academy.

At the head of the enemy shinobi, there was a particular man. He was a giant, and in his face Shikamaru saw the kind of brute intelligence that made one unyielding to reason. Clearly he was a man driven by a principle to which he was utterly devoted, and that was terrifying. In desperation, Shikamaru looked at his colleagues over the heads of the children and felt his heart sink. There was not one single academy teacher ranked higher than chuunin.

From out of the paralyzed silence, Iruka spoke. "It's against the laws of the shinobi nations to harm non-combatants," he said, standing in front of his students.

The enemy's shoulders rippled with laughter. "I'm sorry, Sensei, but we're here to fulfill a contract, and that supersedes any laws of conflict."

A contract?

Shikamaru's eyes widened, already calculating the meaning behind these words. It implied that someone among them was marked for death. Was the whole attack a distraction? What target could possibly be so valuable that the attackers would risk so much?

One of the teachers hissed through her teeth, "Who?" It was a helpless, angry sound, but she had obviously come to the same conclusion they all had. It would be better to turn over one person than to put so many in danger. For some reason, a knife twisted inside Shikamaru as he looked at Iruka's back.

The enemy bared his teeth so that the tips of his incisors sat neatly on the edge of his upturned lips. "The children."

The uniform reaction was shock. It would have cost millions, no, _billions_ to pay off such a contract. Enough to conceivably make it worth attacking Konohagakure as a front. Enough to set the academy on fire.

Iruka's back and shoulders were stiff with fury. It was more than a lack of intimidation. He looked ready to fight, and the kids caught his verve. They faced their would-be killers with stony expressions, with taut lips that didn't pout. Shikamaru looked at his little ones, who were too young to understand, and saw that they had puffed up like sparrows.

"Sensei's gonna get them," one said in a hushed, indignant voice. Diminutive chins wobbled in agreement. At another time it would have been endearing – that they honestly could not imagine anyone more formidable than their Iruka-sensei.

The enemy must have seen all this, because when he spoke again, he directed his words toward his proper opponent. To Iruka, he said, "I have no bounty on your head. You could fight, but you will not win."

The implication, while not stated, was clear: Step aside.

"I'm sorry," Iruka answered. "That's unacceptable."

"Will you try to stop us? Take too long, and this academy will fall down on your heads." Even now, ashes twisted in the air. The beams groaned as the flames licked inside and the walls begin to blacken. The smell of burning wood filled the air with urgency. The enemy shrugged, perverse in his nonchalance. "It's all the same to me."

Iruka-sensei rested his hands on his nearest students, resolve knotting his face into his most forbidding scowl. "I will not stand down from defending this academy."

Something rotting and dark wriggled behind the stranger's eyes, like a worm around the core of an apple. "Are you sure? You don't want to make an enemy of me."

Iruka answered, "It's too late for that."

Then Shikamaru saw the flick of Iruka's fingers, no more than a fragment of a gesture. Yet Iruka was the academy's finest teacher, and all the children knew what that movement meant. Straight backed, Iruka stood before the invaders who had demanded his surrender….and then the room exploded into a whirlwind of white smoke as dozens of small hands dropped their _kemuridama_ in one synchronized movement.

When the white cloud cleared, the intruders found that not a single child was left, only the crackle of the fire as it continued to spread.

* * *

 **Special Thanks:** To my beta, Neocolai. This story is complete because of your influence and encouragement. I really appreciate you, Neocolai!

Author's Notes:  
[1] The original version of the poem is by Mary Elizabeth Frye. Alterations and additions are often read at funerals, and so I also changed the details to fit the remembrance.  
[2] Shogi, a Japanese game in the same family as chess, allows players to "drop" captured pieces onto the board. These pieces are actually referred to as being _in hand_ rather than _timed out_ , but I was metaphor-ing, so there.

Please take the time to leave a comment. As always, the best are those which tell what stuck out to you. Thank you!


	2. Wake

**Chapter Two: Wake**

* * *

Ebisu stood over his former student's hunched figure, his dark glasses shielding his eyes but not the lines leading from them. He touched Konohamaru's back. "Are you ready?"

They approached the stone. There, the photograph gazed at them with a familiar mixture of firmness and fondness. Konohamaru faltered. "Sensei."

He wasn't speaking to Ebisu, though the man had been his guardian, teacher, jounin-sensei. There was only one man Konohamaru addressed with that tone. Ebisu gazed at the etched name and thought, ' _Even now, you supplant me._ '

It had often been that way, but especially since Sarutobi passed. It hadn't been easy on Konohamaru, being the offspring of the Sandaime when the wings of change had carried in a new regime. The treacherous eddies might have pulled him down, but Iruka was a good swimmer. His unexplained connection to the Sandaime had allowed him to teach Konohamaru things Ebisu never could, and for that, for that…

Konohamaru pressed his hand to the stone. "Ever since I was a kid, people have been telling me who I need to be. You were the only one who told me to make sure I could bear the identity I chose." A hitch threatened to derail his speech, but he swallowed around it. "It's harder than I thought, Sensei. What are we going to do without you?"

His question was an echo. A hundred others wept it behind them, especially the children. Ebisu's eyes became hard. _'Who are you to cause such grief?'_ he thought. _'You were just one man.'_

Konohamaru tried brushing away his tears with the backs of his hands, but fresh ones rushed to replace them. He was a shinobi of rank, no longer a willful child – the heir to his family's legacy and not a boy. Yet in that moment all Ebisu could see was the chubby toddler thrust into his arms and taken up with an oath so long ago. Moved by instinct, he leaned closer, lending comfort by proximity.

With a flutter of dark lashes, Konohamaru looked directly at him. "I know you didn't get along, but thank you for coming with me."

Ebisu didn't know how he felt. He gazed past his student to the visage of a man who even now inspired a mixture of jealousy and respect. No, he and Iruka had not always been willing partners, but Ebisu wasn't foolish enough to deny the role his fellow teacher had played. Iruka had protected Konohamaru.

' _And for that,'_ he thought, _'For that alone, I forgive you. I forgive you for dying.'_

* * *

Udon's body felt leaden and displaced. He _should_ have been sitting in the café where he and Iruka met regularly, hands curled around a cup of oolong tea. He could hear the familiar voice now, chiding him as he reached for the sugar: ' _Haven't I taught you any better than that?_ '

Iruka-sensei had been Udon's teacher in many things. From the knowing wink on the day of his first detention, Udon had been aware that Iruka understood. Understood the dismay he felt when his attempts to restrain his more exuberant companions failed, understood his occasional doubts about the shinobi way of life. He even understood the pang that Udon could barely speak of, when his average abilities made him feel insignificant. Iruka-sensei always understood.

' _Not every piece of pottery is a gilded vase, Udon,'_ Iruka told him once on one of those challenging days, when Konohamaru's shadow seemed too long to bear. _'Some are as common as a water pail. But which could you do without – the vase or the pail?'_

Metaphors like that had filled up Udon's life, like coins in a fountain. He could still see Sensei's raised eyebrow. The warmth of his smile. The smell of tea. Over the years, as they'd transitioned from being teacher and student to fellow shinobi, they'd only grown closer. And though the type of advice had changed, the fellow feeling did not.

 _How could he convince Konohamaru to change course when his recklessness endangered their team? What was the best way to apply ink to an exploding tag? How should he fill out his first solo mission report?_

And later other, more personal, questions: _How could he tell Moegi that he liked her? Could marriage among shinobi really work, especially with a teammate? Should he seek promotion or devote himself to family?_

Now Udon longed to ask one more question as Moegi cried into his shirt, stroking her damp rosy hair from her forehead.

' _How do you cope with a loss like this?'_

It was an answer that he would have to find out for himself, and that made chest so tight he could hardly fill his lungs with air.

* * *

Kiba stood with his hands bunched by his sides until the sharp nails gave birth to beads of blood. Akamaru could smell it, and his ears flattened against his head. He whined, and the sound pierced straight though Kiba, because that was the sound his heart was making.

He was no longer a kid, fleeing out the window to avoid getting punished for throwing erasers. It had been years since he'd even set foot inside a classroom; however, Iruka's lessons had a way of getting beneath the skin and taking root there. He could remember one in particular. Kiba had gotten into a fight with Naruto, and Akamaru had taken it upon himself to punish the transgressor of his master's feelings. Afterwards, Naruto had run bawling to Iruka-sensei, who had prodded the tiny indentations on his wrist even though it was obvious they hadn't broken the skin. Then he summoned both boy and dog before him to explain their behavior.

"He started it!" Kiba protested, but Iruka would have none of it.

"When you have a partner," he said and nodded toward a bristling Akamaru, "then you're responsible for him. And biting is never acceptable."

Kiba remembered his aggravation, all mixed up with puzzlement. He understood what Sensei was saying, he really did, but he was an Inuzuka. Biting came with the territory. Racking his brain, he finally blurted, "What if they're a bad guy?"

Sensei paused, probably to consider who Kiba might consider a bad guy. Finally, he affirmed, "With bad guys, it's okay."

"I'm not a bad guy!" Naruto declared **.**

"No," Kiba admitted. "But you were a jerk. Sensei says you should say sorry."

Naruto looked to Iruka, who nodded that this was the truth, whether or not he'd actually spoken it (today). Naruto examined the dust under this toes as though the ground was largely at fault. However, when he finally summoned up the gumption, he lifted remorseful eyes. "Sorry."

It was Kiba's turn to glace at Iruka, who raised an expectant eyebrow. "When someone says they're sorry, it's mean not to forgive them."

Kiba sighed, but nonetheless, he informed his squirming age mate, "Okay."

The lesson – that his nature didn't absolve him from responsibility, that it took discernment sometimes to know who the enemy was – had stayed with Kiba for his entire career, first as a student and then in the field. He hadn't realized it then, but it took a great teacher to impart complex ideas in a way that made sense to young minds. But that was the kind of teacher Iruka-sensei was.

Now he stood beside his mother and sister, watching their faces. Hana had a dog under each hand. They leaned into her side as though they were holding her up. She had cried; Kiba knew she had, but now there were only tracks of cold rain on her face. Somehow that was worse. At one point, he'd thought she might run Iruka down, bring him home for good. Maybe she still would have, but now that chance was gone.

His mother looked angry, her teeth showing. Kiba knew how much she had respected Iruka-sensei. It had been that way ever since Iruka first set foot on Inuzuka land when Kiba was six. Iruka had promised he would visit, but when Kiba told his mother, she explained that the compound was too dangerous for outsiders – that Iruka would not come. Kiba had refused to believe it. At that age, the abandonment of his father was still sharp and close to the surface, and it made him moody and slow to trust. Iruka was one of the few adults in whom he had complete faith. So he'd risked a cuff to the ear for sassing his mother and said, "You'll see."

' _You were worth trusting, Sensei,_ ' Kiba thought. ' _I knew it from the moment those dogs bullied you up that tree. I can still see your sweaty face staring down at all of us. What made you so determined?'_

That day, Iruka had refused to accept the stereotypes that sometimes maligned the Inuzuka clan, and his audacity in pointing out his mother's faults, for limiting her son with her dismissive attitude toward his bookwork, had impressed them all. He'd reminded them of why the Inuzuka could not become insulated and aloof like the Hyuuga, like the Uchiha. Iruka was a mirror, and they were stronger for looking into him and seeing their true reflection.

Now that clear reflection was gone. Who could replace it?

"It's not fair," Kiba hissed, the heat of injustice thrumming with his pulse.

Kuromaru pressed his tattered ear tight against his skull and agreed, "This isn't good enough."

His mother nodded; they all knew what he meant. The memorial was an honorable place to be remembered, but it wasn't enough. "He was an Inuzuka at heart," she said, "and we'll honor him like one."

Kiba heard his sister finally choke, covering her eyes with her hand. He put his arms around her, and Akamaru, sensing their pain, lifted his great muzzle and raised a long, mournful howl. It echoed through the gathering, filling up all the empty spaces, and brought a fresh ripple of grief to all who heard it.

* * *

Yamanaka Inoichi stood with his arms full of flowers, his daughter's hand trembling on his arm. He looked at her crumpled face, which was so fierce it looked angry. ' _Are you remembering, little girl?'_ he wondered. ' _This one was like you: tough on the outside but far too tender beneath the surface. You try to fool everyone with those thorns, but it's no use.'_

Inoichi surveyed the gathered mourners, observing the reactions on their faces with the sagacity of a trained psychologist. He knew their minds without touching. As a body, Konoha was devastated.

He caught sight of Ibiki Morino, standing like a sculpture over the heads of the crowd. To everyone else, the former interrogator probably seemed unmoved, but the scars could only camouflage the surface. Ibiki had known Iruka since the boy was just fifteen, and Inoichi had rarely seen him so wrecked.

This ability Inoichi had to read people, it came with the territory of being a Yamanaka. He was often privy to secrets. He respected them, held them and guarded them, but sometimes he thought the price of keeping them hidden was too great.

' _We hide so much from one another,'_ he thought, and directed his thoughts toward Iruka. _'And you were one of the worst. You spent far too many years hiding the sacrifices you made. So hear these words from a comrade: It wasn't your death that made you a hero, but your life.'_

He stepped forward, bearing his fragrant burden. He laid the bouquet on the stone, the yellow gladiolus and the sprays of Queen Anne's lace spreading out in all their astral splendor.

' _For all you've done_ , _Sensei.'_

* * *

Hyuuga Hiashi stared straight ahead, his blank eyes devoid of emotion.

Beside him stood his daughters, their hair rivers of black ink across their shoulders. Unexpectedly, it was Hanabi who lost composure. She trembled, and her older sister reached out and took her hand. For a Hyuuga, the quiet gesture was as demonstrative as an embrace. Hiashi should have chastised them, but found he couldn't, not here. Not before the grave of Umino Iruka.

The name set off a spark of anger, though it quickly died without tender to lick it into flame. ' _Did I not tell you, Sensei_ ,' he thought, ' _did I not tell you that one day you would break yourself on the rocks of a greater man's wrath?_ '

Hiashi had despised the man as a clanless foreigner, resented the influence he had upon his daughters when they were children, and had been incensed beyond expression by the hold he had on the academy. Over the years, they had battled over the graduation rights of Hanabi – a graduation Umino had consistently blocked – until the day she received her hitai-ate at the ripe old age of twelve.

Now as the rain made rivulets down his neck, he tried to rekindle that old contempt, but it had no heat, not anymore. Once, a long time ago, Umino had made the accusation that Hiashi would rather see his children as dead jounin than to have them live as anything else. At the time, Hiashi had flown out in a rage. He had wrapped his hands around the teacher's neck, a minute pressure away from cutting off the impulses to his brain. It had been the closest he'd ever come to murdering an ally, and – shocked by his own aggression – he had prophesied that this day would come.

Now his warning had been realized, yet he felt no satisfaction. He looked at his daughters, feeling a chill seeping through his clothes, taking up cold residence in his heart. They had survived much upheaval, bloodshed and death, but they had not entered the field as children, though he had pushed so hard that they might.

' _And for that, I may owe to you,'_ he thought. _'I will never say you were right, but I can admit now that there were times I was too much a clan leader and not enough their father.'_

The weight in his arms moved, squirming against his chest. Hiashi looked down at his grandson, who had snot running from his nose. Boruto buried his face in Hiashi's neck. "Ruuuu," he hiccupped, and his remaining grandparent lifted a heavy hand, pressing it to the vulnerable neck. He was aware that this boy might never have existed had he been given his way.

' _I hope there will be other champions to stand as bravely and foolishly as you did before the stubborn parents of this new generation,'_ Hiashi thought. _'Though, perhaps, being taught by you, they will not need so much instruction as I did_.'

Too imperceptibly for any one to see, Hyuuga Hiashi dipped his chin.

* * *

Author's Note:  
[3] The language of flowers differs slightly in Japan, but western thought associates yellow with friendship, while the gladiolus, named for the roman swords they resemble, represent faithfulness and strong moral character.

I had an incredible thought as I was writing this and reflecting on the future of the Naruto universe. If Naruto and Hinata have children, that means Iruka and Hiashi are grandfathers. To the same children. Can you imagine the holidays? Oh, the drama.


	3. Sacrifice

**Chapter Three: Sacrifice**

* * *

Weariness. That was what Sakura felt as she dressed her daughter in dark, formal clothing. "Black for ninja," the girl commented with approval, tugging at the collar of the tunic that had been threaded over her head and arms.

Sakura had been forced to look into her daughter's already-too-grown-up face, and say, "No, Sarada. Someone attacked the academy, and people died. We're wearing black for the – to say goodbye."

Sakura could see Sarada turning this over in her head. At three, her talents were already being recognized, and months ago she had been recommended for early admission into the academy, a suggestion that had been vigorously supported by all but two people: Umino Iruka and Uchiha Sasuke.

"Why?" Sakura asked the night they discussed it. Her husband had been poised beside an open window, and the stars cast a ghostly white light against his cheek bones. His adamant stance on this issue had taken her by surprise. The Uchiha were famous for their genius. She'd expected him to be proud.

Instead, he pierced her with his aphotic gaze. "Destiny will catch up with her soon enough. She can wait a little longer."

He had not said, _'Let her be a child a while she can,'_ as Iruka had, but Sakura's eyes filled anyway. She dared to brush his arm with her fingertips, and that had been the last time they spoke about Sarada and the academy. Now as Sakura used her thumb to smooth the wrinkles from her daughter's troubled forehead, she remembered the shuddering survivors of the academy attack – some so very small – and was so, so glad.

Sarada fingered her black apparel, which only moments ago she had been admiring. "Mama," she asked. "Who died?"

What was that lump in the throat that made it so difficult to swallow? As a medic, Sakura could describe it physiologically: the expansion of the glottis in response to stress, the muscle tension that resulted from a desire to swallow. The human experience, however, couldn't be summed up in facts. Pressing her lips together, Sakura forced out the words. "Some of the students and some of the teachers."

Sarada was so bright. It was obvious that the gene for it was tucked into the fabric of her mind, because as young as she was, she looked straight at her mother and demanded, "Where is Iruka-sensei?"

Sakura had straightened her daughters dark hair, pressed the glasses up the bridge of her tiny nose, and told her. "He's gone, baby."

They walked to the memorial stone, and when they arrived, it was so crowded that Sakura had to lift Sarada into her arms. Nearby, she found the others. Lee, who gripped her hand, his whole body trembling. Tenten, who simply stared with dark circles under her eyes. Kiba with his family, arms around his sister. Ino and her father and Sai.

Shino, of all people, had been the only one who actually spoke to her. He reached out and brushed a buzzing _kikaichuu_ from Sarada's cheek and murmured apologetically, "They're restless." Then he shuffled away, his face tucked so deeply into his hood she could not even see his ubiquitous glasses.

Sakura looked for Naruto, but it wasn't until Sarada tugged on her shirt and pointed that she saw him with his family. He was holding his son, who was crying like only a toddler could, shuddery and replete with tears. It seemed Boruto had also been made to understand what this day was for.

Sakura looked out across the rest of the gathering. So many affected by Iruka-sensei, the teacher who had guided her earliest steps down the path of a ninja. Long before Kakashi-sensei tricked them into becoming comrades, _he_ had been barking at them to get their act together and work as a team. Before Tsunade had shown her the first healing technique, Iruka had taught her to affix a plaster, to splint a finger, to soothe a bruise and a hurt spirit. And she was not the only one. The whole crowd practically hummed with these unspoken stories. It was overwhelming.

 _'Even you,'_ she thought, directing her thoughts toward a distant tree with heavy, concealing branches, easy to stand on and remain hidden. She could almost see Sasuke there, his hand braced against the trunk. _'Even you couldn't stay away for this.'_

She held onto her daughter more tightly, and Sarada laid her head against her mother's throat. Sakura rubbed her tears into her daughter's hair. _'Oh, Sensei,_ ' she thought, unable to find any others words that could mix her sorrow and gratitude in one cup.

* * *

Mirai held her mother's hand, even though only days ago she had refused. She remembered squeezing her fingers out of the searching grasp, nose scrunched with embarrassment. "Ninja don't need to hold hands," she'd insisted. Unfortunately, Iruka-sensei overhead (because Sensei always heard everything), and later he rebuked her.

"One day, you won't be able to hold your mama," he cautioned with characteristic frankness, "but it won't be because you're a ninja. It will be because one of you is dead. You should remember that."

Well, Mirai was holding on now, so tight it made her hand cramp.

Her throat was still tight from the smoke, and she couldn't stop smelling it, not even after she took her old clothes off and threw them into the yard. The odor was stuck in her nose, in her skin. Her mother had caught her trying to wash it off and took her red hands. "Baby, this won't bring him back."

When she was little, Mirai thought Iruka-sensei was daddy's brother because he came over and sat with her mother and stared at the shrine in the alcove. During these visits, he would tuck her into bed and tell her stories: about the time daddy was just a kid and accidentally infused too much chakra into a butter knife and cut his arm, or the time he tried an apple-flavored cigar and got so sick he swore he'd never smoke anything but cigarettes ever again, or the time he got drunk before teaching a lesson to Shikamaru-nii and his teammates, so Iruka made all his sandals sticky on the bottom.

"I wish you would pick your stories a little more carefully," she heard her mother complain as Mirai drifted to sleep.

Sensei answered, "She'll hear plenty about Asuma being a hero, but she ought to know who he was as a person, including his flaws. She'll love him better for it."

Iruka was right about her loving those stories. By the time Mirai was ready to enter the academy, she had already been pushing her chakra into everything remotely weapon-like she could get her hands on. She'd already destroyed seventeen pencils and three of her mother's kunai. Her control was a disaster, but she wanted so _badly_ to do it, and at the academy she knew she would learn. Her mother agreed it was definitely time, though Mirai thought she looked strained.

When the day finally arrived, Mama was so tense Mirai was afraid she would change her mind, but then Iruka-sensei showed up. He took one look at Mama and hugged her. Her nails bit into his back as she said, "I thought I was ready, but I don't know if I can do this."

"You can do it, Kurenai," Iruka told her. "Didn't you tell me that Mirai destroyed two walls last week? Surely any kind of training should be an improvement!"

Mama's next words were muffled in Iruka's shoulder, but Mirai heard a few words: "Asuma – my baby – want – different – for her –"

Iruka sighed. "Every time they hug my knees or ask me to kiss their bruises, I feel the same way. But they're shinobi, Kurenai. Some can make a choice, but many are too strong to go without training and still live a safe and full life. Mirai can't help it. She's got too much of her mother and father in her."

Mirai saw her mother's eyes soften. "You will look out for her."

"I'll peek into her classroom every hour," Iruka said, squinting at Mirai suspiciously, which made her laugh.

There were goodbye hugs and her mother's hand with its fine, prickly calluses smoothing Mirai's cheek, and then she and Iruka-sensei were walking down the road, on her way to the academy for the first time. Mirai looked back and saw her mother's forlorn figure, and for just a second, she wanted to go back. Then Iruka started humming his walking-in-the-sunshine song, which Mirai could never resist. She started marching, swinging their joined hands. A new chapter opened, one that gave her more full access to the legacy of her parents, her grandparents. Mirai had never been happier.

That had been five years ago. Now the academy, the place that had become like a second home, was gone. Just a pile of burned up wood and broken mortar. There was no more academy, no more sunshine-songs, no more...no more...

The tremors started. They shook her shoulders, chattered her teeth. She leaned her cheek into her mother's hip, hiding her eyes. The Rokudaime and Naruto-nii had asked her, "What did you see? How did you get out?"

Mirai remembered.

* * *

She remembered that the white smoke from their _kemuridama_ had left a familiar chalky-sweet taste in her dry mouth. Perspiration poured from her skin, and she felt the slickness of sweat under her collar as she hurried through the academy halls. Weird thoughts occurred: Had anyone remembered to turn off the classroom lights? Had Toboe tucked her new puppy securely into her shirt? Had the fire outside burned up the swings?

Her eyes were stinging in the acrid atmosphere. It was hard to see, even with her hand against the wall. Somehow, she'd gotten separated from her class, and panic was building. Even though she walked these halls everyday, she couldn't remember which way to go. Finally, she stopped and held still. That was when someone grabbed her. Mirai screamed, lashing out instinctively with the kunai that somehow flew into her hand.

Iruka-sensei deflected the blade with his wrist. It drew blood, but the tiny wound was barely visible. He praised her, "Good girl."

"Sensei!" Mirai had never been so glad to see him. She only just resisted throwing herself at his waist. Instead she straightened, making herself tall, and Iruka-sensei nodded with approval. He looked over her head.

She turned around just in time to see Shika-nii appear, his students crowding behind his knees. In the smoky hallway, it was hard to see his face as he said, "Our route is blocked. We had to turn back."

Iruka's brow knit. "Some were bound to be."

Shika-nii opened his mouth to respond, but before he could form the words, a nearby window exploded. Mirai felt the glass shards hit her, but she was tucked into someone's shoulder, a broad hand covering her face. She looked up to see Sensei's hard expression.

"They've set the entire grounds on fire." Shikamaru brushed away tiny fragments of glass form his clothes. "It'll take the whole building soon."

Iruka agreed. "Those shinobi don't intend for any of their targets to escape." His expression was grim as he gazed at the small, sooty faces behind Shikamaru's knees. "Unfortunately for them, they've underestimated us."

"Sensei?"

Iruka shook his head; apparently, there was no time for explanations. "Follow me."

He lead them into another hallway, deeper inside the building, and from this hall into a storage room. Mirai knew it well, because her cousin Konohamaru had shown it to her: ' _Iruka-sensei likes to hide out in here and grade his papers_ ,' he'd told her, his grin wicked. ' _It's the best place to set booby traps_.' Now she watched as Sensei shoved aside a heavy carton of broken practice dummies to reveal a bare space beneath the shelves. He gave it a kick, and part of wall broke off – or, rather, came open.

One of the little kids gasped. "A secret passage."

Shika-nii didn't seem surprised. "I'd forgotten this."

Iruka snorted. "You and the other boys certainly got into enough trouble when you found it."

Shikamaru leaned down and peered into the crawl space. "It was troublesome," he said in his usual dry tone. "Though I'm still not sure why you were so angry. After all, cheating is one of the most important skills for passing the first portion of the chuunin exams. We were practicing."

"It is one _possible_ solution, and certainly not the most noble," retorted Iruka-sensei, but before he could go on he had to cover his mouth and cough. The smoke was in even this interior room now, creeping along the ceiling. "Besides, if you can't do it well enough not to get caught, you deserve to be punished. Fortunately, your past indiscretions mean you can lead the way."

"Yes," said Shikamaru, but he was looking cautious now. "And you?"

The scar affixed to Iruka-sensei's face was often more expressive than his words; it grew livid white when he was angry and his face was flushed, it stretched tight when he was tense and disappointed, and when he was pleased it appeared as a smile. Now it was like an underline, adding emphasis to eyes that were like a tide rolling back into the sea and leaving the barren shore behind. "We have a very determined enemy. As far as they've come and as much as they've risked, those soldiers won't be content to assume we've perished. They're already hunting."

Mirai watched Shika-nii's hands jump up, like a knee jerk. He grabbed hold of Iruka-sensei's flack jacket. "Don't."

Iruka brushed him off gently, resting a hand on his old student for just a moment, long enough to say, "You're in change here, Sensei." Then he knelt, reaching out, touching the little ones. They crowded close. "Be brave and listen to Shikamaru-sensei. Be as quick and stealthy as leaves tumbling through shadow."

Mirai didn't understand; all she knew was that she suddenly felt like the world might be ending. "Sensei?"

Iruka tugged her nearer, looked at her with his frank eyes. "Time to make your father proud, Mirai." Then he hugged her, and Mirai felt like she was paralyzed, her fingers barely able to keep their grip. He pulled away. "As fast as you can," he said, and then he was out the storage room and into the hall that was filled with thick black smoke.

Mirai looked at Shika-nii to see if they should make their way into the tunnel. She froze at the look on his face. It was stricken. She swung her head back toward the door where Iruka-sensei had disappeared.

It was the last time she ever saw him.

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I found these view points especially challenging, and rather than wrestle them into submission, I found it easier to just go to sleep! I'll try to be more disciplined.


	4. Ripples

**Chapter Four: Ripples**

* * *

Two men separated from the others, their expressions hard and closed. For them, death was routine. Inevitable. They were career shinobi. One put his hand on the cold stone, right beside the framed photograph. "I didn't expect this."

Genma grunted. "He was older than thirty." It was the normal life span for shinobi of his ability level.

"And yet somehow he seemed immortal," Raido said, a rueful smile straightening his lips. "I don't know how the village will face his empty seat in the mission room without breaking down."

Genma sucked in air so hard he came close to puncturing himself with the senbon between his teeth. "They'll just replace him," he hissed. He had never felt so old. Had he been there alone, he might even have turned away, but Raido put a hand on his bowed shoulder, creating a link between the men and the stone. Iruka's face smirked at them. Genma could almost see the wicked gleam.

Raido said, "No one is going to replace _him_."

Swallowing, Genma gave a jerky nod. He fingered the final offering he had been chosen to present on behalf of all those who were too jaded to weep. Those who Iruka had defied, commanded, comforted. Those he had taught, even the ones who outranked him.

Genma laid out the crisp new uniform vest of a tokubetsu jounin on the memorial stone.

Some shinobi chose their rank, while others had rank choose them. No one was sure which was true of Iruka, but in the end it didn't matter.

"Your reminded us all where true strength comes from, Iruka," Raido spoke in eulogy, and the silent agreement of the shinobi of Konoha radiated out behind them.

* * *

Teuchi stood with his daughter and her family. He wasn't wearing his apron, but the smell of ramen remained. He didn't mind. After all, that same aroma hung around so many fond memories. Ichiraku Ramen had been a refuge for many displaced souls over the years, warming bellies with the savory steam of broth and noodles. However, few had touched Teuchi's heart like a little blond scamp and his diligent keeper, both short on resources but generous in every other way. He'd watch the two of them, Iruka and Naruto, grow together over many seasons, and now he could barely keep from biting through his lip knowing that he would never see them sitting beside one another again.

' _I never understood their cruelty toward that boy, but you saw past that, Sensei_ ,' he thought, thinking of times when Iruka would tow in a sulking Naruto by the arm, plop the boy down, and call for food – loving him with his actions even when his words spoke admonishment. ' _You were a good man, patient and willing to forgive. I know you were often lonely,' –_ And he did, because Iruka had sat alone on that stool far too many times – ' _But you did your best to make sure he knew someone cared. I know you changed the world that way. I only hope I helped you do it, one bowl of ramen at a time.'_

Not far from the ramen stand owner, a widow stood with her arms wrapped around her son's narrow shoulders. At twelve, he might have already been a soldier. However, when she was still pregnant, Iruka had gone with her before the Konoha Council to petition for her right to raise him without interference. While she trembled before the grave, imperative faces, Iruka fought for her child's future. She would always remember his words: "There is more than one way to serve this village." In the end, her son had been excepted from the shinobi mandate. She still remembered the heat of her tears. Now they fell again, burning down her face. ' _You redeemed my boy,'_ she thought.

Nearby stood a man with leathery hands, rough from years of hard labor. He'd known Iruka because he came to town meetings, the only shinobi who attended. At first they hadn't wanted him there, but Iruka was unlike others of his kind. Iruka listened earnestly to their concerns and – when he could – represented them in the shinobi world. A new bridge which shinobi did not need because they could walk on water. Stronger penalties for violating the rules about breaking and entering without lawful cause. Provisions for better schooling for non-shinobi children. _'You showed us we had value, that those in power would listen if we spoke,'_ the carpenter thought. _'You gave us self-respect. Thank you.'_

A bent old woman bowed her head over hands that were soft and thin with age. She let the tears squeeze out. After all these years, she couldn't believe she'd outlived the scrawny scamp that had taken up residence in her building when he was barely eleven-years-old. He'd been all ribs and mistrustful brown eyes back them, and she'd stuffed him full of rice and fish and eggs until he started looking a little less neglected.

"What would I do without you, Ooya-san?" he had asked innumerable times, and she would tenderly pat his cheek, even when it gained the sharp angles of a young man, one who was fully capable of taking care of himself.

"It's not every landowner who's lucky enough to have you as a tenant."

If she was fortunate, he would get that funny quirk at the corner of his mouth. She rarely saw the scar, it was so much a part of his face, but that little upward twist of his mouth always felt like a treasure. He had a pleasant visage, her Iruka, one easily shaped into friendly lines, but his true smiles were rarer. "Well, I do carry your groceries."

"And mend the roof, and put wards on all the doors, and keep a watchful eye on anyone coming back home in the dark –"

He waved his hand at her, flushed with embarrassment. "Stop. It's nothing for all the years you put up with my sour disposition. Honestly, I don't know how you didn't throw me out in those early days. I was nothing but trouble."

The landlady thought back to that little boy in a dirty apartment, always slinking home through shadows, too wary of adults to accept an embrace. How he had become a man so full of nobility and compassion, she would never know.

"I couldn't be prouder of a son of my own flesh," she'd sworn. And now she sorrowed, because no one should have to stand before the grave of their child.

* * *

It wasn't just the shinobi and civilians of Konoha who came for Iruka. Though in some ways his ring of influence had been small, the actual impact of his life was unexpectedly far reaching. That was why the Kazekage of Sungakure was there, pressing close to his sister while she glanced anxiously at her distraught husband, whose bandaged face – usually so stoic – did little to hide the pain he felt.

Gaara gazed ahead, watching Naruto's tall figure standing near the stone. While the two of them shared much history, the differences were glaring, and one of those differences was Umino Iruka. Gaara had often heard the story. Of swing sets and ramen. A birthday cake and a softly spoken word in an otherwise empty home – ' _Okaeri, Naruto'_ – a popsicle and a reminder that time softened all blows, even the loss of a beloved mentor.

' _How much would have been different, if anyone had stood in that place for me_ ,' he thought, but even though there had had not been an Iruka, Gaara still felt the man's influence. Because if it weren't for Naruto's bright light, a light that this academy teacher had kept from being snuffed out, Gaara himself would never have been saved from his own demon.

Behind him were others, strangers from a dozen regions. He saw the dark skin of people from Wave Country, a few strangers wearing masks whose origin were only hinted at by the musky fragrance on their skin: brine and blood. A pair of teenagers wearing hitai-ate from the land of grass, flanked by a soldier with a half-mask and a long sword. An old woman with a necklace of pearls. A giant bear of a man, who didn't bother wiping his red face even though it ran with tears. Dozens of questions marks. Dozens of untold stories. Did anyone know them all?

' _For want of a nail,'_ Gaara thought, remembering the old poem about how kingdoms could fall because one small link at the beginning of a chain was lost. Iruka's influence was probably untraceable, the ripples so wide they got lost in wide surface of the world. But there was a funny thing about ripples. As long as they kept bouncing into one another, they never died.

* * *

Author's Note:  
[4] "For Want of a Nail" is a traditional poem with many variations. My favorite goes like this: 'For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe, the horse was lost; for want of a horse, the rider was lost; for want of a rider, the message was lost; for want of a message, the battle was lost; for want of a battle, a kingdom was lost, and all for the loss of a horseshoe nail.'

Assorted perspectives to round out the full spectrum of the shinobi world, and especially a few call-backs. Perhaps if you've read my other stories, you'll recognize some of the outsiders and civilians.


	5. Academy

**Chapter Five: Academy**

* * *

A frown graced the lovely face of Tsunade, former Hokage of Konoha. Never before had there been such a memorial for a mere academy teacher, but it seemed that Umino Iruka was determined to make her life as complicated in death as he had in life.

Iruka had defied Tsuande's expectations from the beginning. He had been one of the Sandaime's protégées and knew far too much for his rank. She'd tried to bring him to heel, hoping he would become an asset; however, while Iruka's sense of duty was absolute, his loyalty wasn't so easily won. Which might not have mattered. After all, she was a sannin, one of the most powerful shinobi alive. What need had she for Umino Iruka? She might have dismissed him, literally and figuratively, expect for one thing.

Iruka was the heart and soul of the academy. It was a niche which she had tried to pry him from, but Iruka held on with the fervency and passion of a man with a single cause. In all the days she'd served the village as hokage, she had not found a way to dislodge him without bringing down the integrity of the entire establishment. Looking out at the vast number of lives he'd touched, thinking about the near tragedy – an entire generation almost slaughtered – she was thankful she'd failed. She could admit that now, but oh, the headaches.

She remembered one encounter. She'd come to his classroom and summoned him into the hallway. In her hand was a bracket of papers. "These can't be right, Iruka. You've turned down every applicant for early graduation."

Iruka was a good shinobi. He stood before her with shoulders elevated to just the right height, his feet set exactly apart. Even his face was devoid of emotion. In every way, he was a model of respect. Only his eyes screamed otherwise. Those were saying, ' _What of it, you tyrannical, baby-killing old hag?'_

Tsunade's face creased further. "You also made a scene when one of my agents attempted to sit in on the third year class."

Iruka raised a skeptical eyebrow. If 'a scene' could be defined as standing rooted in the doorway wearing his most forbidding scowl and refusing to move out of the way until the puzzled man lost his nerve and retreated to report to his superior, then yes, Iruka had made a scene.

"He was recruiting," Iruka said.

Tsunade gave him a look she had given many times before, one that was part aggravation and part utter incomprehension. "It's the prime age."

"They're six."

"Many of our best were pulled out of classes like that."

It was hard to explain how someone could look so unimpressed without moving a single muscle of their face or sound so vehement without raising their voice. Speaking in deliberate syllables, Iruka said, "They shouldn't have been."

Tsunade was starting to lose her patience. She waved the papers. "I've overseen these students myself. They qualify."

Iruka stared her down without flinching. Every muscle telegraphed his surety – surety that she would not risk overriding his judgment, at least not now. He might not have been much on his own, but his graduated classes had the lowest casualty rates in the last one hundred years. His _product_ proved his method, and it gave him this very, very small measure of power. She could see it in his eyes: he wouldn't let a single student under twelve-years-old out of academy. Not without a fight to the death.

"They aren't ready," he said succinctly. Then the door rumbled as it slid shut on its track with a heavy slam.

* * *

Kakashi had been to a thousand wakes. A thousand comrades turned faceless and forgotten, all his family lost one by one. He stood in the glade he had so often visited, under the weeping trees, and wondered that he wasn't too numb to feel. His posture might have convinced an onlooker that he had no part in this amalgamation of grief, but inside he felt like his bones were aching.

Voluntary associations. Kakashi only had a few, but Umino Iruka had been one of them.

' _How did you do it, Sensei?'_ It was still something he wondered. He knew pieces: Bitter tea served in battered china. Lazy naps on sunny afternoons with the sound of a pen scratching in the background. Insignificant on their own, but somehow they added up to something much greater.

' _Iruka's favorite color was grey-green, like deep, turbulent waters.'_ The thought came unbidden to his mind, as though something within labeled 'Iruka' had broken open and spilled. 'S _entimental about wilted plants, ruined any laundry that wasn't black or navy blue. Hated the number seven. Didn't celebrate his birthday. Kept a feral cat, even though it was blind, farted, and still bit him if he tried to pet it.'_

Kakashi breathed out slowly, feeling a catch in his throat. It had been a game they played, this parsing out of confidences. It was how two people with little in common but duty, loneliness, and three obnoxious brats had stitched their lives together. Yet for all he had come to know about Iruka, one mystery had resurfaced again and again, and that was Iruka's attachment to the academy.

"You could make tokubetsu jounin, you know," Kakashi had ventured once. It was muggy, and even from the roof they could barely make out the hazy stars. "Exploding tags, maybe, or containment seals. If you don't think you could pass the basic competencies, I could work with you."

Iruka lifted one shoulder, let it fall. "The academy is my calling."

"If you still wanted to teach, you could take a team," Kakashi said, not sure why he was insisting. His nose itched, and he pulled down his mask to give it a scratch. Iruka didn't so much as bat an eye.

"I don't need a promotion to do my work," he answered. "Someone has to look out for Konoha's young people, and the academy is the best place for me to do that."

"Who are you protecting them from?" It should have been an easy question; after all, the enemies of Konoha were many. Yet he had heard Iruka's philosophy of education too many times to expect a straight answer.

Iruka didn't disappoint him. " _Living weapons_ ," he hissed. "That's what one of the council members called them last time they met with me. That's what my kids need saving from: the idea that they're more valuable as a metaphor than a person."

Kakashi didn't comment on the fact that he had often been considered one of Konoha's greatest living weapons, nor did he share what was in his mind about Iruka himself. Nonetheless, Iruka seemed to divine the direction of his thoughts. His head fell back, and he regarded his friend with warm regard.

"You're not so bad, I guess," he said. "Still, there are too many of us with scars that – well."

He didn't finish, but Kakashi understood. Emotional stability wasn't a trademark of their generation. "This is a shinobi village. You may be fighting a losing battle."

"Perhaps, but Naruto and his peers aren't like we were. They could change expectations. They could be strong in a different way."

Kakashi vacillated in his personal opinion, drawn two ways by the experiences of his past and his hopes for the future. Finally, he said, "I hope you're right, Sensei."

"I'd die for it."

The words hung in their air, oddly isolated. Even the cicadas stopped creaking, and for a moment the night was still. Kakashi gazed uneasily at his friend, who was staring staunchly forward. "Iruka –"

"You have your fame, Kakashi," Iruka interrupted. "Your name will live on in the annals of Konoha and the imagination of its people for many generations. Your children's children will remember you. But the academy is my legacy." He'd twisted his hands together, and Kakashi had known he was thinking about an unspoken thing, something he'd once shared on a dark night many years ago. Iruka would always be childless. An early mission had taken that choice from him, but that didn't stop him from being devoted to building a heritage. Every brat in Konoha had a piece of his heart. They knew his arms, his ear, his voice. Iruka gave without asking for anything in return.

But that was why he had Kakashi. On that night, he slammed his hand own on Iruka's shoulder, giving him a bracing pat. "Maa, maa, Sensei. You're getting morbid. Can't we talk about something else?"

Iruka went along with it. "How about we discuss that ridiculous stunt you pulled with poor Gin," he suggested. "As if a clone could be expected to negotiate a treaty that complicated."

Leave it to Iruka to bring that up. Even after Kakashi had become the Rokudaime and took on a level of seniority and rank far beyond even his ANBU days, Iruka could be counted on to rake him over the coals for something as silly as skipping out on a treaty signing or pulling out an Icha Icha volume in the middle of a council meeting. It was reassuring in a way. Kakashi was a professional shinobi of the highest caliber, but he wasn't cut out to be a sage. It was comforting to have at least one person who didn't take him too seriously. Well, two. Naruto was just as bad.

Kakashi let himself fall back against the roof tiles, his arms pillowing his head. "It was too boring. I couldn't go."

Iruka prodded his ribs. "What are your allies supposed to think if the Rokudaime of Konoha can't even be bothered to show up in person? And think of the example you're setting. Naruto couldn't stop laughing over how 'brilliant' it was."

Turning over, Kakashi propped his head on his hand. "I'm the hokage. I can do what I want."

"Slacker!" Iruka castigated. "I'm ashamed of you."

"Says the shinobi who can't even kick a puppy in the name of completing a mission."

Iruka colored. "You promised me you would never bring that up again."

Kakashi picked at something inside his ear. "Hm? I didn't hear you."

Things had pretty much devolved from there, with much shouting and dry retort. However, it had ended in comfortable silence. Both men stretched out on the still-warm tile, resting in a friendship neither completely understood but which filled a missing space in both.

Now, at the funeral, movement in the swirling grey clouds worsened the downpour. Not even the branches under which he stood could block the rain, and Kakashi shivered as the cold water sluiced down his neck. In his head, he heard a demand, raggedly torn from Naruto's throat: _"What happened?"_

Kakashi knew what happened. He'd traced the signs of that battle with his own hands.

* * *

Kakashi had been on the front lines, at the gate where they were sure the breach was contained. He'd been a ghost, his hands flashing with metal and blue with death, taking his enemies apart with every telegraphed move they made. He was fighting beside the best shinobi of two generations, the great bulk of the Akimichi and the dogs of the Inuzuka paired with Naruto's golden chakra. They defended the integrity of the village against enemies who stood no chance, who fought like berserkers.

Then Naruto had given a shocked cry, and on the horizon they all saw the black smoke rising from the academy like a shroud over the sky.

Horror threatened to destroy his focus, but Kakashi pressed it down coldly. His sharp kunai found another throat, but this time he stopped short. One millimeter of pressure away from ending the kunoichi's life, he snarled, "Were there other cells? Did they go after the academy?"

The woman leered. Her teeth were already bloody, and most of what made her human was already leaving her eyes. She spat, "Contract fulfilled."

Before her corpse hit the ground, Kakashi was gone. The academy was one of the central features of the village. It stood at its heart, buttressed by the mountain and the eyes of former hokage. It should have been impenetrable. Yet three blocks from the building, Kakashi could already feel the heat. Plumes of smoke were being pumped into the sky. As he cleared the final building, Kakashi stopped dead.

Naruto skidded to a halt behind him and gapped. The wooden skeleton of the academy was completely exposed. Boards sloughed off and fell to the ground where they burst into a spray of embers. The grass was seared back, all the way to the walls. Already, there was almost nothing left.

Had that ruin been full of children when it was engulfed? Would they find an entire generation buried in the ashes? Unable to accept the possibility, Kakashi seized his hands together and folded them into symbols. Nearby, the water tower trembled, and then a flood gushed out of it, sweeping through the academy. It knocked away much of the building that remained, causing the creaking, steaming wood to bend and snap, collapsing inward. Kakashi's mind supplied a vision of brown eyes crinkling with spirit, while that ridiculous brown tail trailed the back of his neck. He had to remind himself that no one could possibly have been left alive inside.

Naruto leapt as soon as the wood settled, and Kakashi followed. The first corpse he spotted made his throat work, but it was too large to be a child. Kneeling, he turned it over. The foreign hitai-ate was bent with heat, but it wasn't the fire that had taken this enemy's life. He looked, and – yes. A few feet away, a standard Konoha sandal still bound to flesh. Kakashi forced himself to see if the body could be identified, but he could tell nothing except that it was a woman. Kakashi hated that his chest relaxed when he realized. One of the academy teachers had died here, but it wasn't Iruka.

They found others, pausing only to identify enemy shinobi or friends. Inevitably, there were a few small bodies: three of them, near the back wall. Kakashi measured them with his eyes. Twelve-year-olds: awkward, gawky soldiers with more courage than sense. Three senior students – but why here?

Scraping away the debris, Kakashi found the trap door they'd been guarding, and when he forced it open, he found a deep, deep tunnel leading underground and away from the academy. Other shinobi arrived, and they rejoiced when they saw the hidden exit. Scouts were sent, and news returned from the bunker.

The children were safe.

In the end, almost every student was accounted for – all but the three seniors and a small group of eleven-year-olds. Missing were thirteen teachers. Looking over the burnt shell of the academy, Kakashi began to understand what must have taken place. The fire had been only part of the attack. With such a large bounty, the enemy had wanted to be sure. The came into the academy, but the planned slaughter had not happened. The classes had been given time to escape, and the enemy had been caught in their own trap.

Kakashi turned abruptly, propelling himself to a better vantage point. The steam stung his nose and throat, yet his senses were fixed on the debris, a name at the front of his mind. A name which the exultant, returning scouts had not said.

He breathed it out: "Iruka, where are you?"

A sudden crowing behind him. A large crowd had gathered, shinobi and civilians together. He saw Tsunade, her presence still a powerful statement even though the hokage title had passed from her. Her expression was bleak, but even her face softened as the first of the children was brought back out of the earth. It was Kurenai's little girl. She blinked at the alien world that had once been her school, and then someone spoke her name. "Mama!" She dashed into the outstretched arms. It was the first of many reunions.

Shikamaru emerged, squinting in the light. When he caught sight of Kakashi, he climbed to stand beside him. "Rokudaime," he said hoarsely. Kakashi had almost forgotten that this young, talented chuunin had elected to follow in Iruka's footsteps.

"What happened?"

"We heard the alarms and started to evacuate. They stopped us at the door." Shikamaru gave their enemy's identity, explained their terms. Afterward, he added, "All the children. Can you imagine?"

Kakashi's brow had became a black lightning bolt. Yes, he could imagine. It would have made a village rich. "You avoided a direct engagement."

"We did. Iruka-sensei –" The young man's voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat before continuing. "Iruka confronted them, of course. Signaled for cover. We retreated back into the passages just as the flour caught the flames. The explosion gave us time to withdraw, reach the tunnels. Some of the teachers stayed back."

He didn't offer an explanation as to why any single person had remained. Kakashi had read the plans Iruka had laid out for the academy in case of emergency. Junior teachers and those attached to the youngest classes had one single responsibility, and that was guiding the children. The more experienced would have immediately taken up stations. They would have held those positions until they died.

Kakashi swallowed carefully. "Iruka wasn't with you in the bunker."

Shikamaru just looked at him and didn't say anything.

"There were three of his students, by the trap door."

Shikamaru said, "The seniors behaved extremely well. They acted like shinobi, brought up the end of every group, didn't panic. Some of them would probably be promoted for something like this, except –"

"Iruka doesn't allow early promotions," Kakashi finished. As a five-year-old academy graduate, a chuunin before he could properly read, he had often wondered what his life would have been like if he, too, had been refused graduation, if his childhood had been protected. Would he be weaker or stronger?

Three little bodies, guarding a trap door. An ambushed academy, with only seven causalities under the age of thirteen. This was the legacy of Iruka's teaching philosophy.

Without another word, Kakashi dropped deeper into the academy. When he touched down, he found himself surrounded by wreckage. There was a strong smell, like rotting eggs. His ears were full of silence. There was only the dripping of water and the occasional groan of the defeated structure. Then a faint sound, like the cry of a ghost, set the hairs at the base of Kakashi's neck standing. He turned on his heel, gazing down an empty passage.

He went that way.

The hall ended at what had been a large open space. The supporting beams were warped, but the shell of the room could still be recognized. Kakashi stepped inside, and as he did he laid his hand on the door frame, which was miraculously intact. Something crackled under his fingers.

A sound of fluttering cloth, and then he was no longer alone. Ibiki surveyed the area with eyes long accustomed to reading the aftermath of tragedy. "Here?"

Kakashi still had his hand on the threshold, where a scorched paper was affixed. Though it was burnt almost beyond recognition, there was a faint electrical smell which the chiori user knew well. The remains of the containment seal flaked away easily under his fingertips. Without the sustaining chakra of its host, it was nothing but paper.

Ibiki spotted it. "He was always skilled with those."

Kakashi remembered the first time he'd seen Iruka use containment seals in the field. A more powerful opponent had absconding with an item they'd been protecting. Unfortunately for her, she had not been able to abscond with herself. A ring of seals had sparked, imprisoning her and Iruka in the same pen. Kakashi had arrived just in time. Afterward, he'd had to stitch sutures into Iruka's throat. The gash was so near the artery that Kakashi was afraid he might pierce it. As he waited for the muscles in his own hands to stop trembling, he accused Iruka, "To escape, all she had to do was kill you."

Iruka had watched him with sluggish pupils. The blood loss made his grin infuriatingly idiotic. "Yes, but I can play the long game. It's what I'm good at."

"It was stupid," Kakashi insisted.

"You're stupid," Iruka echoed, but before an argument could start, he clarified, "You're brilliant, Kakashi, and powerful. But I have a different way of fighting, with its own risks. A sparrow doesn't fight like a wolf, Taicho."

Kakashi grimaced. He had hated it when Iruka called him that, as if the man had ever really allowed himself to be anyone's subordinate. When he paused, still holding the needle, Iruka patted his hand.

"Come on. It's just a flesh wound. Finish the job, will you?"

The memory faded, until there was only the present – this broken hall and the story it harbored, which Kakashi did not want to know but couldn't avoid. It was already all too clear. "You fought to live," he surmised, speaking to Iruka as though he were there. Kakashi thumbed the fragments of the containment seal. "And to keep someone here with you. But who, Sensei?"

Ibiki summoned him. "Kakashi."

The former interrogator had found the remains of an unknown assailant. They could see signs of the battle he'd fought before he died. Nose bashed in under the force of a tremendous blow. Arms chaffed red like a lobster, but not with burns – not with incendiary ones, anyway. Extreme cold had caused a lot of that damage. Water jutsu. Falling debris had crushed the torso and skull, and that was likely what killed him, but though the whole body was mostly undistinguishable, the identity was clear nonetheless. Ibiki touched a greasy ridge of meat with the toe of his sandal. "You see those scars on the ridge of the ear?"

"Elite jounin," Kakashi agreed. "Not that any endowment of chakra would have saved him from the seals."

Ibiki nodded. "No, it wouldn't, but it certainly looks as though he tried." The nail beds were raw and bloody, and there were electrical burns. Iruka had lured this piece of slime into this room and made sure he could not leave. Kakashi's eyes fluttered over the empty space behind him, the impact marks, the darker pools of water. A surge of urgency came over him, and suddenly he had to know what had happened. Right now.

He moved away from the corpse, following the action to where it had started. He stopped when he found the imprint of sandals. Iruka had stood here, braced for whatever conflict had followed. Kakashi could see the perfect form. If he had a ruler, he was certain the width of the stance would be precise to the millimeter.

His eyes roved, seeing signs of the struggle that had followed. A marked footfall, the trace of a handprint. Kakashi's practiced gaze missed nothing. He could see each movement, each parry, each time the weaker opponent – _Iruka_ – had fallen under the onslaught, every time the teacher made a desperate resurgence.

Finally, Kakashi came to the end. There, his feet became adhered to the ground, muscles rigid with paralysis. Before him, he saw the boards from the collapsed ceiling, wedged over a hollow space.

Ibiki stepped beside him, glanced at him with an unreadable look, and lifted the boards.

Kakashi hardly knew what sound forced its way out of his throat. The nerves in his hands jumped, spasming until the nails bit deep. He wanted to close his eyes on what he saw, but it was too late.

The image of Iruka lying shattered against that wall, a mural of blood streaking away from the tangle of his dark hair, was a memory that would remain with him for the rest of his life.


	6. Legacy

**Chapter Six: Legacy**

* * *

Iruka had only one objective in mind after he left Shikamaru, and that was to protect the children. He could still hardly believe it had come to this. He'd prepared for it. Plans and escape routes, roles and procedures. Kakashi had called him paranoid. The other teachers made remarks about his obsessive need to make a contingency for every impossible scenario. The students had groaned over the monotony of constant drills.

None of them understood. This was what kept Iruka up at night. This impossible possibility of the academy under siege, of a hundred vulnerable young lives under threat of death.

All around him, Iruka could hear the fire chewing through the bones of the academy, yet he did not change direction. The man who had confronted him in the entrance hall was like a stamp on his mind. That was a man of absolutes. Unhindered, he would trace every flicker of chakra to its source. There would never be a secret bunker that was safe.

Iruka had to stop him.

He halted in the heart of the academy. It was a room with many good memories. Shining hitai-ate, proud parents, beaming young men and women with their fresh resolve and determination to carry on the Will of Fire. _'A fitting place to force this final stand,'_ he thought.

Iruka was ready when his enemy appeared, looming out of the doorway. The man's head and shoulders ducked as he entered. "You," he said. "The sensei who wishes to die."

Iruka's eyes were on the man's feet as they crossed the threshold, but his focus wasn't so complete that he couldn't answer. "You're the one who invites death, coming here. To even attempt this –" He shook his head. "It's mad."

"Konoha has become a threat to the stability of the shinobi nations. You've become too numerous, too powerful. This is about preserving balance."

"So you'd wipe out a generation?" Iruka asked. The answer was clear in the heat growing with every passing second. Sweat was dripping from his face onto the floor. It was pronounced on his opponent, too, though he seemed unbothered.

"Yes, I will," said the man without one hint of hesitation.

"You won't touch one child," Iruka countered, just as sure. "Not while I live."

The man appeared thoughtful. "I'll accept those terms. Although you weren't on my writ, I suspect I may be striking a blow to Konoha by killing you. But as you can see, time grows short. I'd like to be well clear when your academy falls."

"I'm sorry, but you won't be going anywhere," Iruka said, sinking into a defensive position made textbook perfect by a lifetime of practice.

The enemy shook his head, but did not waste any more words. Instead he lunged, his hands already bristling with chakra. He was fast, too – so fast that Iruka barely had time to avoid the enhanced knuckles which crunched through the floor, sending up a spray of splinters. Immediately, Iruka had to dodge another blow, then another. The onslaught was dizzying, almost too quick for him to see. Kakashi was faster, but only just, and Iruka couldn't keep up with either of them, not even on his best day.

Good thing he didn't plan to try.

It was a lesson he had taught so many times. He could envision himself at the chalkboard, leaning forward over his desk and baring into the eyes of his rapt audience: "If you can't defeat an enemy in combat, don't engage in one. Be a ninja."

Iruka slammed his hands together, and the lights went out.

He heard the enemy shinobi falter, startled by the sudden complete darkness. A too complete darkness, as it turned out, which became evident when the humming started. It wandered up and down the scale of human hearing, undulating, twisting through the ear at an unbearable pitch. Iruka took the opportunity to put as much distance between them as he could, and by the time his opponent broke the genjutsu with a shout of exertion, he was ready.

The ice formed only with enormous effort. The air was so dry that the only moisture Iruka could draw from was the perspiration on their own skin. Hoarfrost bloomed over the enemy's arms, under his armpits, across his neck and chest. Subzero temperatures made it burn like acid, and the man shrieked in surprise and agony. While he writhed, Iruka put his entire weight behind his fists. ' _Please fall unconscious,'_ he prayed right before the blow struck.

The man slammed into the floorboards and hit his head. Then he lay still. Iruka panted, chanting in his mind, ' _Stay down, stay down, stay down,'_ even though he knew. He _knew_ it wasn't enough _,_ but he couldn't help wishing that –

The man came to his feet like a demon. His face was unrecognizable. The bellow of rage had barely concussed Iruka's ears before the killing intent of his enemy slammed into him. He didn't see the attack, but it struck with the force of a falling tree, and Iruka felt something rip inside. His body hit the floor, once, twice, three times. When he finally came to rest, he shuddered against the metallic taste in his mouth. He tensed his muscles, urging them to move, but all he managed was a jerky, uncoordinated spasm.

That was it, then. No more fighting.

His enemy approached, and Iruka knew his mind: he was outraged that this fluttering, winged thing had caused him so much hurt. Iruka could see the raw hands, too swollen to draw into fists. The man's breathing was whistling through a crushed nose, and there was pink foam all down his face, spit and saliva hissing through broken teeth.

"You," he snarled, spitting off the side, sullying a floor that was already damaged beyond repair. The wormy eyes flashed with fury. "I don't have time for this!"

Iruka felt a surge of satisfaction seeing the deterioration of the man's emotional state. Already, he had lost all concentration; his movements careless, his expression mercurial. Of course, he had made his fatal error long before this pitched battle had even started. He just didn't know it yet.

Iruka forced himself to roll onto his side, then onto his knees. With great effort, he folded his fingers together. It must have looked like supplication, like he was kneeling in prayer. He said, "Time isn't with either of us, but that no longer matters."

The shinobi had to step to the side as a rafter fell, sending off a wave of heat. "I'm going to kill you," he said. "And then I'm going to hunt down every one of your infants."

"You won't be able to leave this room," Iruka said, and there must have been something in his voice, something that wasn't there before, because the man stopped fuming and really looked at him. His eyes dilated.

Without announcing his intention, the enemy shinobi lunged toward the exit. Yet, when he reached the threshold, the parameter of the room erupted with electrical discharge. For a moment, the enemy pawed at it, but the chakra he summoned only made the barrier crackle in fierce blue arches more powerfully than before. Finally he was thrown back, his clothing tattered and his skin hissing with burns.

He turned toward Iruka and howled. "When?"

"Before you arrived," Iruka answered calmly.

"Fool! All I have to do is kill you."

Somehow, the teacher smiled. His ribs were in fragments; he could feel the strain on his lungs. There was a numbness in his legs which suggested something in his spine might be chipped. He could feel the concussion, too. His mind seemed to waver, but some things remained all too clear. All this man had to do was kill him?

"Go ahead and try," he said. "Survival is my specialty."

With a roar, the enemy attacked him. Iruka felt the frame of his body taking damage, felt his bones weaken, dislocate, break. The man who had come to take his children was hysterical with his desire to make it out alive. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't.

Finally, Iruka's back hit the wall and he slid all the way down. He could no longer feel anything but his hands, which were still fused together. He twitched his index finger, sliding it into place. Through blurring vision he saw his enemy come to strike a final blow, but it was over. Iruka gathered breath to speak one more word.

"Release," he muttered, and the incendiary tags on the ceiling's support beams exploded.

Iruka was thirty-five. Almost ancient for a chuunin. He'd lived a long and eventful life, filled with sorrows but also triumphs. This would be his last accomplishment. He closed his eyes and let his body relax, unaware of the dying flicker of his containment seals or his enemy's scream as the weight of the entire academy came crashing down. Instead, his final thoughts were of a pleasant green meadow where a child shrieked with laugher, the smell of ramen, and the warmth of familiar faces. He smiled faintly, the last contraction of small muscles before his one great muscle gave out with a last, feeble pump.

And that was all. He was gone. Umino Iruka went out with the tide and left behind only a sparkle of water on wet, dark sand.

* * *

Kakashi opened his eyes, the memory of that awful day dispersing. He didn't realize that someone had joined him until that person cleared their throat. He turned to see an unfamiliar person wearing stained, travel-worn clothing. He had a pack over his shoulder and a puzzled expression on his face.

"I think I may have arrived at the village at a bad time," he said. "Is this a funeral?"

"Yes," Kakashi answered. He realized they were at the far edge of the gathering, shielded by the leaves as they dripped with moisture. He blinked slowly, finding words for this outsider though he didn't know why. "His name was Umino Iruka."

"He must have been a powerful shinobi," the stranger said.

It was easy to understand were this conviction came from. That the hokage of Konoha would mourn. That every villager had gathered to see him away. Kakashi looked out over the bodies; at the crying children, the civilians with their faces in their hands; over the shinobi who looked on bleakly to see another of their own gone. He thought of Iruka's first class, who were becoming the pillars of Konoha in this new generation. All gathered around a man who had refused to accept the standards of their time or teach it to his children.

To Kakashi, he had been one of the reticent copy-nin's few confidants. One who teased him and grounded him, and someone with whom he had traded life-debts too many times to count anymore. A comrade. His friend.

A powerful shinobi? Kakashi turned to the emissary and gave his final benediction:

"He defied worth."

* * *

"Do not stand at my grave and weep;  
I am not there, I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripening grain.  
I am the gentle Autumn's rain.  
When you wake to the morning's hush,  
I am the swift, uplifting rush,

Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there, I did not die"

("I am a thousand winds that blow" by Mary Elizabeth Frye)

* * *

Author's Note: And that's that, readers. It's finished. Thank you for years of support and encouragement, the entertaining discussions, and the occasional challenges. It's all meant a great deal to me. Good wishes to you all. Please take the time to leave your final thoughts about the story.

Some Special Thanks: To everyone who left comments, especially repeat reviewers **nascorgi, RobotInTheRoom** , **Shikatem** , and **The-Lady-Smaell.**


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